I joined a class at Grub Street. We weary onlookers were given 10 minutes to write flash prose about something that made us uncomfortable and/or alienated. This is my attempt.

El ojo de un huracán:

The cars are different. The smells are different. The sun is in the wrong place at the wrong times. I am frightened by the outside. The chaos of it all. Inside is good. I don't know anyones name, but the wafts of simmering breakfast are at least familiar. Hot tea rests on the table. They call it coca tea. I am told it is always a good tie to have coca tea.

We order a breakfast of eggs with bread. The eggs are different. The bread is good. Breakfast is good, but as the meal progresses, the time that I will have to face the chaos outside draws ever more near. Outside is ruleless. Cars blast by the obviously invisible pedestrians. Buildings appear to be intentionally unfinished. I retreat inside to a fresh glass of juice and more time at the table. Sara's eyes stare wide, I hide.

We met a man named Pratab. He is visiting from Florida. He has been floating through this pool of chaos for weeks. To him, the outside is calm and ordinary. He spun a magic web of words that pulled us to the light. We round a corner into a market of unidentifiable animals hanging on hooks. Rainbow swirls of fresh fruit draw us near. Have you ever had a mango? No? Mangos are bliss. There is no dignified way to eat a mango. We are told to sink our teeth in. To paint our face with mango flesh. Smiles grow. Outside is good.

My eyes were closed tight. I never got swept up and trampled by traffic. I never shouted at a thief or cursed the drivers. I never said hello to strangers. I never felt comfortable sitting on a bus and rolling by a dry landscape of sand, with mountains of roofless homes creating a mosaic of color. A golden sun colored landscape that glistened past the window was wasted on me.

But chaos is fleeting. Chaos becomes a pattern. Patterns are familiar. I like patterns. Once the veil of chaos dissipated, I noticed the blue cerulean painted facades, the vivid garments billowing in an ocean breeze, the richness of my soundings, and the happiness of the people. I became a piece of the technicolored culture. I didn't want to leave.

My best friend and I got our first cars at roughly the same time. They were matching red Jeeps. Iconic! We were hankering to take them for a spin. I donned my cowboy hat. It was impossible to drive a Jeep without a cowboy hat. I remember the anticipation and excitement arriving in his driveway and seeing his matching Jeep.

We jumped over the doors and into our Jeeps, folded the windscreens down to let the air rush our faces, and instantly took off into the backyard. The play set whizzed by as we bolted down the hillside. It was a perfect sunny day. Maybe spring. Ya definitely spring. My chunky knit was keeping me warm in the crisp air, and Andy was getting away from me. I quickly took a shortcut through the grass and narrowly missed a collision. It was epic!

We zigged and zagged our own trails until I started to experience engine trouble. This is a terrible for adults and even more terrible as a three-year-old. It started to lose life somewhere by the swings. Or maybe by the garden? Andy was getting farther and farther away. He was a speck in the distance, up by the driveway. I tried to pry open the hood, like adults do, and stare inside, hands waiving above my head. I gave up and ran towards the drive and the giant people pushed the Jeep towards its charging station as Andy and I took off back down the grassy hill in his crisp, red Jeep Powerwheel.